


Eat Your Heart Out

by PurellGoddess



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Will Graham, Dark, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal season 1, Kissing, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, No season 2 spoilers, Obsession, Psychology, Sexy Times, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will does not know Hannibal is a cannibal, super dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1520771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurellGoddess/pseuds/PurellGoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter, a prominent psychiatrist in Baltimore, Maryland, has two dangerous obsessions: one with eating people, the other with a curious man who can put himself into the mind of killers. Killers such as Hannibal Lecter. Thus the manipulation of Will Graham begins, and Hannibal toys with his greatest crime yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Your Heart Out

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is very, very dark, and possibly quite triggering. Read at your own discretion. If you can get through the series, you can get through this work. Thank you!

The story of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter was infamous throughout Baltimore. After the tragic events had occurred, there was a stagnant period of silence, when people purposefully avoided the subject and tried to eat in peace. Then, after they had regained balance after being thrown by the sudden earthquake that was Hannibal's gruesome reveal, the story began to be spun. 

Soon, Hannibal the Cannibal was the tale of the town, a ghost story that had never really manifested in reality. The martyr Will Graham became another storybook hero, one forgotten and glazed over in the telling of fairy tales, and Hannibal almost became a laughable villain, one who was so characteristically evil that he nearly evoked humor instead of fear. But not quite. 

Hannibal was never truly forgotten. He had wormed his way into too many heads and held one too many illustrious dinner parties to be written off as a one-sided antagonist. He was too complex to fathom into nothingness, too multifarious for people to avoid his reptilian smile, which for years plagued their thoughts. 

Hannibal was still out there. And he would someday return. And when he did, people had better remember just how deadly he was. 

*****

The affair started as many other ordinary, unimportant affairs have: through a mutual friend. It started not so much as a wild, passionate whirlwind of events as it was fated to become, but as a purely professional occurrence between two unassuming parties. And as much and Doctor Lecter would hate to admit it, he was indeed unassuming-- unaware how the roughed and clearly unstable man who wouldn't meet his gaze while shaking his hand would change his life. Hannibal could discern Will Graham's instability immediately, although it seemed as though he was succeeding in hiding it from even the great Jack Crawford. 

Hannibal was curious from the moment Alana mentioned the undiagnosed maniac who could get inside the mind of and embody the most grotesque and slapdash killers. He was playing with fire from the beginning with Mr. Graham; a lion in a person suit should never befriend a lion hunter, yet Hannibal with his endless curiosity could not refrain from becoming intimate with his possible huntsman. However, though Will tried to hide it, Hannibal could sniff a bit of lion under that clam and scruffy exterior, along with many dogs, a love of fishing and an inflamed right cortex. 

Their relationship began professionally enough to escape the cliche of the patient-doctor love affair. Unbeknownst to Will, Hannibal began toying with his from the start--inflicting his little injuries and feeding him not only people, but ideas and subconscious persuasion. Soon the doctor began to notice his own speech pattern emerging from those pert lips and a faint accent dripping off Will's tongue. 

After times like these, Hannibal's perverse obsession could only grow. This obsession was obviously bad for both parties; if Hannibal was too attached, he had a weakness, and if he wasn't attached enough, he'd lose interest and probably kill the beautiful work of art that was Will Graham. A killer cannot have weaknesses, but must also not be bored. A wounded animal is more dangerous than one without stimuli, but Hannibal Lecter was not a wild animal, even if he did have some barbaric tendencies, and although he would be more deadly in his weakened state, he would be oh so very alive. 

Hannibal was not only engrossed with Will Graham's extraordinary mind, but also his personality, his behaviors, and eventually his body. Doctor Lecter's intrigue with the man didn't begin as a sexual urge or something spurred by emotions, but Hannibal's curiosity roamed from Will's insides to his outsides. Of course, there were times where his curiosity nearly got the better of him, but Hannibal managed to keep his rogue urges unmet until the right time presented itself. Hannibal Lecter was not a man guided by emotion, and he would not let human nature prevent him from his greatest crime yet. He bided his time with the patience of a snake ready to strike, and he would have his dinner.

*****

When cooking, Hannibal seemed to almost slip into a stage of altered consciousness: while aware of his surroundings, he wasn't aware of himself or his mind. Nothing mattered except the food he was artfully preparing. He was lost in a world of poignant smells and sharpened knives. 

The same state came upon him when he was hunting. His senses threw information in a rapid fire storm to a brain the was all but shut down. He trailed and cornered and baited all calmly, with a grace and poise seen only in the most elegant of killers. The only time he completely regained consciousness was when the art began. When he pulled back the skin to reveal the darkness inside, when he cut out the organs, still warm with use, when he revealed to the world how vile these people truly were. When he made what was deformed in life beautiful in death. 

His creations were not only disgustingly bewitching, but delicious as well. Once the meal was born, he wanted nothing more than to share it with others. That was why Hannibal invited Will to dinner that night. 

It was only three weeks after their meeting, but Hannibal was dangling on the precipice of affection with the man who could become another person entirely. People often become different beings when alone or around others, but become another version of hisself was not what Will did. Mr. Graham could replace his mind with another's just by looking at evidence in front of him. He could reveal emotions, intentions, and motives, before unintelligible. In a world where superheroes don't exist yet supervillains do, Will's ability was coveted. 

From what little interaction they had had in those few weeks, Hannibal could already tell that Will would emote more in another person's head than in his own. He was shy, introverted and plagued by an acute form of autism which made it difficult for him to even stare at the world with eyes unshielded. He was wary of touch and enjoyed the company of dogs more than that of people. The moment Will walked into the room for the first time, Hannibal could smell the dogs on him. Their stink clung to him like an overprotective mother, covering up his own musky smell. At that moment, Hannibal made it his goal to strip Will until his only smell was indeed his own. 

That day, Will was dealing with a minor killer, an obvious one who had killed his mother in a fit of rage fueled by years of forced feeding and early bedtimes. To Hannibal it was uninteresting, but he could tell Will was a bit uncomfortable with the subject matter. Mothers were nearly always a hard topic with his patients, Hannibal had pondered upon. So much suppression, so much strife, yet so little guilt. 

To honor their first dinner, Hannibal was preparing an illustrious and vaguely comforting schweinshaxe: pigs knuckles-- the illustrious part-- in broth, which made Hannibal think of his childhood. Again, so much suppression, but a good meal. When Will arrived, he was wearing the same button-down and jeans he wore to his session earlier on the day. Granted, Hannibal hadn't changed out of his plaid suit either, but his attire was innately a bit more appropriate for the settings he often found himself in. He was certainly not complaining, however, about Will's attire. Simply observing.   
"Hello, Will," Hannibal smiled and motioned him in. 

"Hello, Doctor Lecter," Will returned his polite smile and even ventured to meet Hannibal's gaze for a moment. "Apologies for not bringing any wine, I got caught up with-- at a crime scene."  
"No worries," Hannibal assured, ignoring the change of truth and walking back into the kitchen. "I have plenty to go around. And please," he paused by the door," call me Hannibal."

*****

"... And that is how I lost my first patient." Hannibal finished with a half smile as he watched the man sitting opposite him dissolve into laughter. Their meal eaten and applauded, the two men were left chatting away like two old ladies over bingo. Hannibal was glad they had gotten past the awkward polite titters, because Will's laughter was a thing to behold. His eyes crinkled, his mouth spread wide and he bared his teeth as he let out peals of laughter. He looked much younger when he smiled. All his gloom and brooding looks leached out of his jubilant face as he threw his head back to guffaw. The whole bottle of wine he drank had certainly loosened him up. 

"You have had quite a career, Doctor Lecter," Will wiped tears from his eyes, lungs still spasmodically puffing with laughter. 

"One can only imagine, Mr. Graham," Hannibal smiled. Will grinned again at him, and leaned forward slightly. 

"So, Hannibal," Will grinned even more profoundly when he said his name. "What do you think of me, your current patient? Of my condition... My diagnosis if you will."

Hannibal frowned slightly. "You know I do not like to discuss my patients outside of their therapy. It applies to you as well."

"What, am I such a helpless case that you can't bear to say what I am afflicted with outside of your office?" Will teased, a bit too boldly for Hannibal's comfort. "Or am I too delicate of a flower to even comprehend what my mind is doing?" He leaned forward with a wicked grin on his face and a hand reaching towards Hannibal's knee. Not at all flustered, the doctor simply studied Will as his hand landed gently on his plaided knee, his fingers, toughened by years of hooks and dog bites, brushing his wool-adorned thigh. Hannibal pursed his lips slightly and let his piercing gaze roam around Will's for once emotive face; his ghostly eyes now warm and inviting, his lips parted in an eager smile. Hannibal had wound him up, and now he could watch his toy go. Just not quite yet. 

"Now Will," Hannibal nearly whispered. "You don't want to get ahead of yourself."

"But you would?" Will was now leaning forward even more dangerously, focusing intently on his doctor's lips. 

The game was being played just a bit too fast for Hannibal. "Will, I think I should drive you home now." He watched as Will's smile dipped just slightly, but noticed a new glint of determination in his eyes. "Doctor's orders," Hannibal insisted wryly. 

As he lead his would-be lover out to his car, he kept a close eye on Will. He had a feeling of what he would do in his intoxicated and restless state, but Hannibal wanted his reward for that very expensive bottle of Chilean merlot. As predicted, just as he reached to open the front door, Will, in a movement Hannibal easily could have stopped, whirled around, bringing his face no more than three inches away from Hannibal's. 

"Doctor Lecter," he whispered steadily. "I really would like to know what you think of me."

"No, Will," Hannibal said, finishing the subject. "No."

Will, for nearly the first time in their meeting, met Hannibal's dark eyes. The determination was not yet lost in his icy blues, and Hannibal almost wished Will wasn't so confident when drunk. It was sometimes hard to control those destructive urges, those wants to tear apart the bold and taste how truly fresh they were. 

When Will closed that small distance between them, Hannibal didn't snap his neck. He didn't take him by the shoulders, crush their mouths together and gouge rivers across his stubbled cheeks, or rip every button off his checked shirt. He just turned his head, and grieved the moment that was wasted as Will's reaching lips mouthed awkwardly at the doctor's cheek.   
Will clung desperately to the almost kiss. He grappled his hand around Hannibal's neck in a grip that the was only indication of his despair. His lips softly brushed Hannibal's cheek, resting just a bit to plant a bit of wetness right on his cheekbone, and all at once, the doctor knew he was in trouble. 

Why was Hannibal turning his head? Why was he sighing like a child after living a perfect day? Why was he pressing himself against the man he so foolishly hated and loathed and loved and ravished? Why did he ache for Will's heat, for his breath, for Will himself? Why was the lion falling in love with the lion hunter? Hannibal tried to look into Will's eyes to glean answers to his rife questions, but he found his eyes pressed shut, a mixture of childish ecstasy and wanting list flitting across his thrown back head, his fingers twirling into Hannibal's hair, his hips trying to push, to grind, to control. 

"Will, I must insist you contain yourself," Hannibal said with an edge. "This is inappropriate for both of us."

Will's eyes snapped open, his pupils shrinking to two pinpoints in a sea of blue. He retracted his hands, exhaling on Hannibal's neck, and hung his head like an admonished puppy. Hannibal pushed away from the teacher and Will allowed himself to be lead by the small of his back into the passenger seat of his car. He didn't utter another word the rest of the night, staring straight ahead as he left his car and wandered into his home, leaving Hannibal scolding his body for reacting so humanly.

*****

Upon their next meeting, Will didn't remember that awkward circumstance. His inebriated mind had apparently blotted out the one time he had almost seen Hannibal in his true form. How fortunate. Hannibal loved how wonderfully pliable Will was. As his therapy progressed, he took advantage of that damaged mind and easily influenced conscious. It was only a short time before he was completely losing himself, and more awkward encounters ensued. They were certainly not awkward for. Hannibal, however. 

The November night was quiet, albeit a bit gusty from the nor'easter that had scraped the top of Maryland the day before. Hannibal always liked a good storm, and enjoyed how it left the streets bare and people alone and susceptible. If the electricity gave out and the night became dark, Hannibal transformed into a true predator, stalking with a cat-like grace and persistence down abandoned alleys and empty parking lots. Once the storm left, Hannibal discarded his aftermath along with it, a grisly remainder of a violent thunderstorm of passion. 

That night, Hannibal was in his cellar, cleaning up after preparing what would be the roasted liver of a pig (a certain unpleasant librarian) when his methodical scrubbing was interrupted by a soft pounding at his door. Upon opening it, he came face to face with a shivering, pale and half-naked Will Graham. 

"Will," Hannibal's only outward reaction was two quick blinks, but his internal reaction was one of both delight and discretion. Will didn't respond, or even show the slightest hint of recognition to where he was. "Will, do you know where you are?" He continued to stare past Hannibal's head, lost in a blankness Hannibal could only wish to be a part of. 

Sighing in half-sympathy-- after all, it was him who had caused this-- Hannibal put his arm around the other man's shoulders and led him out of the darkness, through the labyrinth of his home and into his parlor, where he pushed him down and threw a blanket over his shivering form.

Hannibal sat across Will, in a perverse pantomime of their acquainted seating arrangements at his office. Looking at the dark-haired wonder in front of him, Hannibal had an immense urge to do vile things to his body, to touch and caress and cut and watch waterfalls of blood rush out from the porcelain expanse of Will's skin. Hannibal envisioned Will outstretched and compressed, broken and bruised, radiant and whole. He envisioned him sprawled out in a meadow with a lion pelt around his lying form, a portrait of undefeated courage, a picture of how Will was greater than all. All this flashed through Dr. Lecter's head as he calmly watched Will collapsing into himself. 

Hannibal smoothed out his suit as he undressed upstairs, thinking about how it would feel to wear Will's skin. He studied his reflection in the tall mirror that stood against his wall; muscular, toned, aging well like a good wine. He wondered if young Will would be a good wine, if his blood would taste rich and dark or faintly sweet and floral. 

After he'd changed into his more comfortable yet still plaid sleeping attire, Hannibal padded downstairs to visit his dear disturbed patient. Will was still looking straight ahead, but he hadn't moved at all. Hannibal cradled the brunette's chin, gently resting his index finger just below the hollow of his unwavering eye. He turned the stiff head, finding the sleepwalker's fervently beating pulse, consistent and strong. Hannibal smiled and he let his hand slide down Will's throat, just grazing his collarbone. What would that feel like when it snapped, Hannibal wondered. 

"Time to sleep, Will," he whispered, like a parent to a misbehaving child. Will nodded slightly and tried to stand up, but Hannibal had already lifted him off his feet, his arm supporting around Will's waist, the other grabbing tightly his wrist and pulling it around to rest on the doctor's shoulder. As he lead the half-unclothed, half-asleep man up to the guest room, Hannibal hoped there would be bruises on Will's delicate skin tomorrow. 

Lying him down on the bed, Hannibal smiled to himself as he watched Will bury himself into the covers and into sleep. "Goodnight, my dear Will," he murmured. 

As he quietly exited and walked away, Hannibal caught Will's soft "Goodnight Doctor Lecter."

*****

Hannibal could see the progress he was making etched out on Will's face. The lines underneath his eyes deepened and his eyes began drooping in a permanent look of someone fighting off sleep. He looked older, but not more mature. He had the air of a child grown up too fast, pushed just past the limit his adolescence could contain. And he began to forget. 

Hannibal was the only one who could see when Will wasn't entirely there. He became quieter, a bit less brash and more aware than usual. He didn't seem odd to anyone else, simply because nothing had changed except his future. While he may be living in the moment, it would somehow escape from him later, dropping him into a present he didn't understand. 

This dissociative amnesia was Hannibal's crowning glory, his triumph of science and psychology. He touched deep down into all Will's tender pathologies and neuroses to create a new psychosis within his rearranged mind. And he was beautiful. 

Then the seizures began, and Hannibal was enraptured. He watched Will's cortisol levels fluctuated and his body began the psychogenic non-epileptic episodes, rendering him unable to do anything but shiver deliciously. Hannibal could watch Will convulse for ages before injecting him with an anticonvulsant drug to stop the spasmodic flinches. 

Soon, Will was teetering on the precipice of hysteria, all the while clinging to Hannibal like he was his guardian angel instead of a personal torturer. 

But beneath Will's damaged surface, the fight raged on. 

*****  
Will sat down on Hannibal's chair that afternoon with a placid smile on his face, but Hannibal could sense a shadow beneath it's complacent surface. 

"What is wrong, Will?" Hannibal asked. 

Will's mask slipped for an instant, a half-surprised half-sorrowful look momentarily taking its place. 

"N-nothing's wrong," Will stuttered. "Why would you think that?"

"Because your face is not entirely your own today," Hannibal replied calmly. "Why is that?"

Will's visage vanished entirely. "The Ripper killed again."

"So you are slipping on a mask because you projected yourself onto the Ripper?" 

Will rubbed his face. "I... I am 'slipping on a mask' because... Because I hardly know my own face." Will stood up and paced around the room. 

Hannibal regarded Will with a hawk-like intensity. "Do you not know yourself or are you too afraid to put on your own face, like you do with other killers?"

Will spun around. "What do you mean other killers?" he spat, a defensive gleam in his ice blue eye. "I am not a killer." He wound around the room. "I am NOT a murderer!" With the last syllable, he brought his fist down with a dull thud on the bak of his chair. 

"I never said you were, Will." Hannibal continued to observe him quietly. "And you know who you are. Your name is Will Graham, you are in Baltimore--"

"No!" Will cried, continuing to pace. "Don't give me that bullshit! Half the time I don't where I am, and then you tell me. When I don't know who I am, you tell me I know! I don't know who I am. I DONT KNOW WHO I AM!"

"William, calm down." Hannibal said as emotionlessly as he could.

"Do not call me William!" Will nearly shrieked childishly, then, catching himself, he caught his breath. "Oh my god, what am I becoming?" He caught his eye with a frightened look. "Who am I?"

"Sit down, Will." Hannibal motioned. Searching for thoughts unable to be found, Will slumped into his chair. "Now listen." He reached over and took Will's hands in his, trying to make him meet his reaching eyes. "You are Will Graham. You have an ability that lets you see things as others may see them, but you are not those people. You are not a killer, you are a teacher. You are Will Graham. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise."

Will looked into Hannibal's eyes. "I am Will Graham."

"Yes."

Will took a deep breath, nodded, jumped off the precipice of friendship without a second look and leaned in to hug his therapist. 

"I am Will Graham," he said into Hannibal's jacket, his fingers digging onto the lapel like it was his lifeline. 

"Yes." And you are mine, Hannibal thought.   
*****  
He knew.  
   
Hannibal knew he was in love with Will Graham, as much as he ever could be. He coveted and craved, yet still tortured and tormented. He loved him, but loved pulling him around even more. 

He knew it was dangerous, now more than ever. Will was digging deeper into the Ripper case, and Hannibal was digging deeper into Will's mind. It would only be a short while until someone took notice of their Will's confusion. He already had persuaded Alana that everything was alright, but she had the sense of a bitch when she thought one of her puppies was injured. And although Jack had the sense of a blind cow when it came to the perils of colleagues, if he thought something was seriously wrong with his beloved crime-solver, he would investigate and never stop until his precious china was fixed. 

He knew he had to end it, and soon. Hannibal was sure of one thing: he would not let go without a show. 

*****

When Will showed up on Hannibal's doorstep that last day, he was shivering once more, not from the cold this time, but from a brain addled by the hands of Doctor Lecter. 

"Hello, Will," Hannibal smiled knowingly. "These are not my business hours, but I see that you need a friend, not a therapist."

Will nodded, a defeated look upon his tired, older-looking face. Hannibal lead him to his loft, which overlooked one of Baltimore's nicer streets. He sat Will down and retrieved two glasses of whiskey.   
Upon entering the room, he heard Will's haggard breath, his wet inhales and broken exhales. When handed his glass, Will quickly wiped the hasty tears from his face and threw his head back, downing the drink like a drowning man gulping for air. Hannibal waited patiently for him to speak. All he needed now was patience. 

"I seem... to have misplaced my idea of self," Will stumbled though quietly. "I don't know who I am, half the time I don't know where I am, and I feel like life is moving at a speed I can't keep up with." His voice took on a sarcastic edge and he sped up with a frantic gleam in his eyes. "I feel alone and claustrophobic and surrounded by strangers and enemies. I can't talk to anyone about it because I'm so close to solving the case, but I'm so close to breaking. Even as I'm saying it, I realize how melodramatic it is, but I just can't control-" He broke off his frenzy with another hacking sob as he once more collapsed into himself, as Hannibal watched him that night so long before, when everything had just begun to turn. When Hannibal had started to succeed. Now he had won entirely. Out of the battle of Will's mind, Hannibal emerged, victorious.  
   
Hannibal kneeled next to his fragmented maniac. "Will," he lifted the teachers head, cradling the tear streaked cheeks like a piece of fine china. "Do you trust me?" 

"I can't even trust myself." But he met Hannibal's gaze, however hesitantly. 

"Do you trust me?" Hannibal repeated, feeling of serenity falling over him, like the calm before the storm. All he needed was patience. 

Will nodded, giving up his last chance of life. "Yes. Yes, I trust you."

And with that, Hannibal let loose nearly a year of pure animalistic want. He took Will ravenously by the mouth and edaciously by the hips. Will opened up to him, grabbing Hannibal by the back of the neck and pushing his tongue against his doctor's. Hannibal lightly dragged his nails down Will's throat, tearing off his shirt with an unceremonious rip, revealing his bare torso. Will fumbled with Hannibal's jacket before unbuttoning and pushing it aside, only to find another article of clothing blocking his way. He whined in need and Hannibal smiled as he bit his way down Will's chest. Once he reached Will's nipple, a gasp from above brought Hannibal to quickly strip off the remainder of his suit like a band aid that had been suffocating his skin for too long.  

Standing in front of Will, he let the shirtless, panting man look over him. Will's eyes drank him in, caressing his body with his orbs blown wide with passion. He rose up to join Hannibal, standing just three inches from him. They had made it past the point of no return. Will was past the point of saving. 

Hannibal reached down to Will's pants and began to slowly unbutton them. He once more delved into Will's mouth, reveling in the moans that escaped through lapping tongues and grating teeth. Then they were standing together, skin against skin, predator and prey together with nothing keeping one from running and the other from killing. And there, in the middle of a sparse loft, surrounded by discarded clothes and whiskey glasses, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter truly learned what the phrase "to make love" meant. 

Time escaped both of them, and all they had was each other. Hannibal watched as Will gave himself up, a sweet moan erupting from his lips, and Will watched, actually looked straight into his lover's eyes as Hannibal came inside him. They moved together, two bodies with one motion, with one singular thought; lust. 

They ended lying on each other, panting, chest seizing and falling in synchronization. Will stared deeply into Hannibal's glinting eyes and laughed quietly. Hannibal let his thumb trace Will's raised cheekbone, down his bobbing adams apple, stopping at the break of his collarbone. All so delicate, so easily broken. What would it feel like to break Will's bones as he had broken Will's spirit?

"Well, Hannibal," Will chuckled, looking at the doctors lips. "What are we going to do our next appointment?"

Hannibal looked into Will's eyes once more. "Are you sure you trust me, Will?" 

Will smiled, a large and warm smile that, for the first time in what seemed like forever, reached his eyes, turning their cold blue clear cerulean like a bird of the tropics. "What kind of a question is that?" Will laughed, reaching up to stroke Hannibal's jaw. "Yes. Yes I trust you, with everything I have. The little I have left."

"Good," Hannibal smiled. And he slipped his hips down onto Will's and brought his hands in a chokehold around his neck. 

The terror was intoxicating. 

At first, Will was unaware of the gravity of his situation, but he realized soon enough. His blue eyes bulged and he tried to cry out, but Hannibal was unyielding. He shushed Will quietly as the pounding pulse under his grip began to ebb. 

Will died with his eyes open.  
   
Hannibal gently closed them, then stood back to view his victory. In death, Will no longer looked aged; coated in sweat and sprawled on the floor he looked like a piece of art. He was beautiful. Hannibal sniffed the air-- all he could smell was Will, Will, Will. He began to work. 

*****

When Hannibal did not arrive at work the next day, nor to the crime scene he was summoned to, Jack began to worry. After another day of no word, he decided to pay Hannibal a visit. Upon arriving at his house, Jack was met with an unlocked door and no sign of life.   
While Jack had visited the good doctor's house multiple times, he had never traversed through the labyrinth that was the top floor. He wound around corners with his gun out, calling for Hannibal, without reply.

As he made his way up to the loft, he had a sudden urge to turn around and run. To leave while he could. To save himself. But he continued. And wished he hadn't. 

Will Graham was seated on a grotesque throne of bone and gore, a crown of glass cutting into his forehead, his placid face streaked with blood. His open eyes stared straight ahead, empty and dark. He was still smiling. 

Jack convulsed. 

*****

Hannibal walked along the palm-dotted path of the hilly island and bared his teeth in what others would call a smile. 


End file.
